


The SilverFlint Mixtape Vol. 2

by vowelinthug



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 14:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11404701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug
Summary: a bunch of tumblr prompts i wrote awhile ago and posted on my tumblr and then totally forgot to put on ao3some fics include: roleplay, a vague understanding of the greek language, romantic conversations on cannibalismM because only one of these is Explicit, so it's a little like playing russian roulette with boners





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted [here](https://vowel-in-thug.tumblr.com/post/156199135991/for-the-fic-prompt-meme-25-my-nightmares-are)
> 
> prompt: “My nightmares are usually about losing you.”

Flint finds Silver right where Madi said he’d be – lying in a private hut, alone, attempting to glare his pain into submission and failing.

Silver glances up when Flint arrives. He looks startled, and exhausted. “When did you get back?”

Flint approaches the bed, trying to keep his features unconcerned. He’d been on the last boat launched from the Walrus when they made it back to Maroon Island. Even from here, he could hear his crew outside the hut in camp, where they’d been talking and eating and settling in for almost an hour now. He needs Silver focused and able for the days ahead, but he also needs him not mad and defensive. “Not long ago,” Flint says. “How are you feeling?”

Silver’s face changes. The bleary-eyed weariness melts to anger as quickly as dusk becomes night. “I fucking  _told_  her not to tell everyone –”

“She didn’t tell anyone,” says Flint. “She told me.” Madi is a smart woman, who knew when to pick her battles, and this is something Flint would have figured out on his own anyway. “Answer my question.”

Silver slumps back on his bed, anger completely gone. He looks a little guilty at his outburst as he sighs. “The fever is gone. The pain is – manageable, like always. I just haven’t slept. Any troubles on your end?”

Flint shrugs. “We’re all set to sail out tomorrow morning. Get some rest until then. You need to be fit for what’s to come.” He turns to leave.

“No,” says Silver. He doesn’t sit up fully but he stretches out a hand to stop him. “Stay, just for a bit, please.”

After a long pause, Flint finds a chair and sits down. “Did you… have something you wished to speak about?”

“No,” says Silver again. He closes his eyes, hands resting back on his stomach. “Just, everytime I let you out of my sight, you nearly get yourself killed. It’s doing my nerves in.”

Flint shifts awkwardly, resolving to tell Silver about his duel with Teach – later. “That’s... not true,” he says.

“Colonial regulars, a tempest, the mercy of a mad Queen.” Silver snorts. “It keeps me up at night and, as you say, I need rest, so just sit here quietly for a moment and try not to die.”

Silver breathes evenly, but he knows – somehow, Flint knows – that when Silver actually slept, he makes a soft wheeze through a slightly opened mouth with every exhale, that he won’t sleep until he turns onto his right side, one hand beneath his cheek, hair spilling into his eyes. Somehow, Silver keeping an eye on him, has turned into Flint watching over  _him_. It’s only late in the afternoon, too early for bed, but the heavy circles under Silver’s eyes and the paleness around his lips and knuckles indicates Silver needs all the hours he can possibly get.

He means to let Silver fall asleep and then leave, but he finds himself asking, “It’s me that’s disturbing your sleep? Not the leg?”

Silver cracks an eye open immediately, fixing it on Flint. “The pain does its part, surely. But as of late, I’d be lying if I said my recent nightmares weren’t about losing you.”

“You have dreams of me dying?”

“No. Just –” Both of Silver’s eyes are open now. He props himself up on one hand, his cheeks slightly pink, and Flint hopes it’s not the fever again. “Losing you. I dream about you – gone.”

Flint frowns at him, not understanding, and Silver falls back in bed again, passing a hand over his face with another sigh.

“Last night, for instance,” Silver says, hand still over his eyes. “I dreamt we were back in the launch, rowing out to that whale carcass again. I’d barely eaten from the fever, and though it’s not exactly the same pain, it certainly  _felt_  like the same gnawing hunger in the dream, which made it seem all the more real. Except this time, I’m rowing up front, and I turn around to face you, and you’re just gone. Your oars are still and skimming the flat waters. There was no splash, no rocking of the boat to imply you’d gone over. You are just not there – lost to me. I manage to get back to the Walrus, and they – faceless men a hundred stories up, it seems – shout down to me they haven’t seen you in years. They don’t pull me back up, because they have no use for a Quartermaster without a Captain, and they start to sail away, and the  _paflasmos_  slowly beats away at that tiny boat until the wood wears away, and the boat sinks beneath that useless sea. Then I woke up, just as my head was going under.”

Silver’s voice is measured and quiet, as though speaking from the dream itself. Flint has been uncomfortable with the idea that Silver might dream of him, but he doesn’t know what to make of Silver dreaming of his absence and calling it a nightmare.

He decides to retreat to his old ways, whenever he’d learned something personal about someone, by following it up with a dry, scholarly question of ill-use and meaning, something both Thomas and Miranda used to tease him about. They’d say he loved learning, except anything about his fellow man. “What was that word you used?” he asks.

“What?”

“P- _paflasmos_?” Flint says it slowly, not even attempting the accent Silver used. “Is that… Greek?”

“Oh,” says Silver. “Yes. It means… There isn’t a direct translation, I suppose. It’s like… the tiny waves that lap the sides of boats when other boats move through the water.” The hand has fallen from Silver’s face, and he’s looking at Flint expectantly, not quite expecting this line of questioning.

“I didn’t know you were Greek,” says Flint.

“You didn’t know I  _speak_  Greek,” Silver replies with a tiny smile.

Flint edges his chair closer to the bed. Orange evening light filters through the cracks of the hut, and he could hear the villagers and his men discussing dinner. He should go make sure Vane isn’t causing any shit. He should leave Silver to his rest.

Instead, he asks, “Do you dream in Greek?”

“Sometimes.” Silver blinks sleepily at him. He looks unbearably warm and comfortable to Flint. “When I think of you, though, it’s usually in Greek.”

Flint frowns again. “Why’s that?”

Silver shrugs. “There are words you remind me of, other words that don’t translate well either. Even I sometimes think one word is preferable to ten, given the right situation. Can I get some water, please?”

Standing, Flint finds a bottle and a metal cup beside the foot of the bed. As he pours some out, he asks, “What kind of words?”

“Well, there’s  _levendes_ ,” Silver says. “It means a tall, masculine man with much pride.” Flint glances up sharply, so he sees Silver’s tired smirk when Flint accidentally spills some drink onto his hand. “You can imagine I’ve heard that one quite a bit in the past.”

Flint rolls his eyes, but still finds he’s tense and unsure. He brings the cup up to his face, sniffing it to save himself some time and to make sure it is, in fact, water.

“I think of you and I think  _kaimos_ ,” says Silver, watching him steadily. “It’s like… a longing, or a deep sorrow. A burden. Actually, it does have a literal translation. It means  _burning_.”

Flint holds the cup limply in his hands. He doesn’t move from the foot of the bed. He feels like he’s walking up a staircase in a dream, thinking there’s an extra step and jerking out in his bed. One small movement and everything is disrupted.

“I think of you and I think  _merakai_ ,” Silver continues. “A deep devotion. Your eagerness. I often think your body moves on  _merakai_ , yet your soul moves on  _kaimos_. And I often think for me, it might be the opposite. The water?” He holds his hand out again.

Flint brings it to him, and Silver cups his hand and draws his fingers over the back of his other hand, gently dragging down to grasp the mug. Flint doesn’t know why the gesture is familiar, like a half-remembered haze of some vision upon waking. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised when Silver takes the cup with one hand to drink, leaving his palm light on Flint’s curled fingers. He watches Silver swallow deeply and feels a dryness curl up on his tongue.

“ _Alisahni_ ,” Silver says when he puts the cup down and looks up at Flint, his eyes clearer than they had been a moment ago.

“What’s that?” Flint asks, with something that is like fear, that is like eagerness, that is like  _burning_.

He keeps still as Silver runs the flat of his hand up to Flint’s bare wrist. Flint’s watching Silver and Silver’s watching his hand move all the way up. “I think of you and I think of  _alisahni_. I think about the salt drying on the hairs of your arm.”

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> originally posted [here](https://vowel-in-thug.tumblr.com/post/156011569466/prompt-silver-and-flint-why-are-we-whispering)
> 
> prompt: “Why are we whispering?”

The horns finally stop blowing, and Flint absently says a silent prayer for the departed Mr. Scott. He always had a great deal of respect for the man, particularly now, after discovering who he’d actually been. His presence and guidance will be missed.

Around them, the Maroon villagers begin to mourn, and Flint watches them uncomfortably. He feels intrusive. But they make no move to conceal their hurt, openly weeping with each other, holding each other, comforting each other. Perhaps that is what rattles Flint so much. His own grief he keeps locked away, piling it on as the years go by in the dark, dusty corners of himself. The pile grows, but his frame stays unchanged, so it often feels like he might rip at the seams with all the loss he holds in him.

And yet, he can’t imagine acting the way these people do - publicly embracing their pain like this. He sees it with his own eyes, but it’s like watching birds fly: possible for  _them_ , sure, but utterly impossible for him.

He looks back at Silver, who seems equally unsettled. He doesn’t know if Silver is remembering some of his own grief, or if the wide display of any emotion is what disturbs him. Either seems likely, so Flint moves closer to him, wanting to turn from the shroud of death that hangs now over the camp. He can talk to Silver about their present circumstance, but somehow their conversations always help Flint take a step back from it all, allows him to exist only in their moment, face to face with Silver.

Everyone around them talks loudly, and no one is bothering with them for once, but still Flint says in a hushed voice,  “It was both.”

Silver turns to him, and Flint had miscalculated the distance when he’d shifted, it seems, because now they are looking at each other and they are much too close. Silver’s eyes are wide. “What?”

“What you said a moment ago, what you are unsure of,” says Flint softly, “it’s both.”

Silver glances away for a moment, licking his lips, before meeting Flint’s gaze again. “The warning, then, I understand,” he murmurs. “I see why you would want to caution me. But I’m not completely sure I comprehend the welcome.”

His voice becomes so quiet on the last word, it’s almost inaudible. The din around them increases, as music begins playing and drinks are passed around. Why were they bothering to whisper? Why not find somewhere more secluded to speak?

But Flint needs to drift closer to him to hear over the crowd, and he finds himself liking that need. Their discussion has no need for true privacy anyway. They’ll always be a step away from the rest. And Flint is facing enough risks these days. He isn’t entirely sure the outcome of speaking to Silver when he is wearing that particular expression on his face and there is no one else around.

“When you asked if I have experience in this, living with this overpowering presence within,” Flint says, still in a whisper, “I do. But my experience has always been entirely solitary. Until now.”

Silver twists his upper body to the side, resting his hand on the step between them. It doesn’t touch Flint’s hand, but he feels a finger graze against his every time Silver exhales.

“You’ve had other partners,” Silver says. “You weren’t always alone.”

Flint shakes his head. “I’ve had people, yes. They’ve backed me up when I needed it, or stood in front of me, shielding me from fallout, or when trying to reason with me. No one has ever been able to stand at my side before.”

This close, he can feel Silver’s breath warming his cheek. He thinks he can hear Silver’s heart beating, even over the crowd, but perhaps it is his own. He carefully watches Silver’s throat as he swallows heavily.

“Then there’s no guarantees here,” Silver says lowly. “Side by side, our vantage points are the same. There’s no insurance either of us can be saved from this.”

Flint shifts his hand to the right, so his finger finally overlaps Silver’s, and sees up close Silver’s expression flicker at the touch, concern swinging to understanding across his features like a pendulum, turning with the earth.

Around them, there is still noise, still the cry of death in the air and the talk of war on the tongue. Still, people move around them in mourning. Flint keeps his grief private, yes, but the ones he grieves for were the ones who showed him how to be open with other things.

“The question you must ask yourself, then,” Flint says, finger stroking once, soft as a whisper over Silver’s, “is whether you actually  _want_  to be saved.”

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> originally posted [here](https://vowel-in-thug.tumblr.com/post/156659116711/dude-there-is-always-a-reason-to-write-porn-where)
> 
> less of a prompt, more of an anonymous suggestion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated E

Silver hears a knock on his door long after the sun has set – three sharp, short thuds on the heavy wood. He pauses in his writing for a moment before continuing, not bothering to glance up as he calls out, “Come in.”

No one comes in.

Silver looks up at the door. The door looks back at him, unflinching and silent. “I said,  _come in._ ”

Another brief pause, then the door cracks open slowly – before swinging all the way open and Mr. Flint strides in. The door bounces off the wall but he catches it easily, slamming it shut behind him.

Silver blinks, setting his quill down. He leans back in his chair behind his wide desk. “Can I help you with something?”

Flint doesn’t move from the door. He shifts awkwardly, face still red from working on the spar all afternoon. Sweat still clings in the hollows of his neck and under his arms. He seems mildly annoyed, but Silver can’t recall him ever really looking any other way He’s staring at Silver’s desk, at his work, at any place but at Silver.

“Mr. Flint?”

That breaks him out of his reverie. He approaches finally, fists clenching and unclenching as he walks. He doesn’t sit down. “Sorry. I was told you wanted to speak to me. Sir.”

Silver smiles, closing the book he was writing in. “Yes, thank you. Tell me, Mr. Flint, how long have you been a part of my crew?”

“I’ve been a rigger for over a year now, Captain,” Flint says. He looks a little less nervous now, but he’s still looking just above Silver’s head.

“And how do you find me, Mr. Flint?” Silver asks. “Am I an agreeable sort of Captain? Capable?”

Flint frowns at him for a quick second before his features smooth over again. “Oh. Uh. Aye, sir. All the men find you fair and able.”

Silver stands up abruptly and approaches swiftly from the side, letting his iron leg thump dramatically on the ground.

“I wasn’t asking all the men, sailor,” he says, walking up close. “I was asking  _you_.”

Flint is smart enough not to back away. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, but he swallows heavily at Silver’s sudden nearness. “Sir, I –”

“ _Captain_ ,” says Silver.

“Captain,” Flint agrees. “Captain Silver, sir, I don’t know what you heard, but –”

“I heard you’ve been telling the Boatswain I was too  _weak_  to lead this crew. Is that true, Mr. Flint?”

Flint’s teeth snap audibly shut, his face even redder than before, and he finally turns to face Silver fully. “I  _fucking_  didn’t, sir. I –”

Silver grabs him by the arm and spins him back forward, pressing him against the edge of the desk. Flint catches himself on both hands to keep from falling all the way forward. Silver hears his breath catch in his throat to keep from gasping. It annoys him, suddenly, that Flint is so able to control himself still.

So Silver steps up behind him, pushing in close. “If I really wanted to prove to you I wasn’t weak,” he whispers into Flint’s ear, “I’d have you lashed against the main mast for your insolence.”

Again, that shuddering inhale, though this time Silver is able to feel all of it, running down his whole body. All Mr. Flint can say is, “ _Please_.”

Silver hums, running a hand down Flint’s backside. He doesn’t miss how Flint pushes back into into it, but there’s little Captain John Silver misses. “Is there some other way I should punish you, then, Mr. Flint?”

Flint stills under him, and Silver can’t see his face, but he sees the tiniest nod Flint gives. Then Silver has to step back, as Flint is unbuckling his belt and letting his breeches fall to the ground.

The candlelight bounces off Flint’s pale ass beautifully, and Silver can’t help but run his hand over it again. He loves how his tanned fingers look against the freckled, unscarred curves. He lets out a murmur of appreciation, stroking over the tops of his hard thighs and up his soft, warm back under his sweaty shirt, loving the way Flint trembles in anticipation.  Silver’s hand rests for a moment on his ass cheek again, before lifting off and bringing it down hard, the slap as loud and bright as cannonfire.

Flint bucks under his hand, nails digging into the wooden desktop, but he doesn’t let out more than a muffled groan, and Silver wants nothing more than to turn his ass as red as the rest of him. He brings his hand down again and again, swatting both cheeks randomly, stopping sometimes to pinch and squeeze, until the skin is fire-hot under his burning hand, until Mr. Flint is breathing ragged, a writhing mess, hunched all the way forward on the desk. Silver stops and drapes himself over him again, letting his rough clothes and hard cock rub against Flint’s warm backside. He reaches around to feel Flint’s own cock strained and aching, leaking come onto some of Silver’s important papers, so he can hear Mr. Flint moaning into the wood, “ _Please_ , Captain Silver, please,  _please_.”

Silver runs his fingers softly over Flint’s cock, doing nothing more than teasing. He presses his nose behind Flint’s ear and breathes deeply, tasting the sweat and desperation on his tongue. He says, “Perhaps you were right, Mr. Flint. Perhaps I  _am_  weak.” He steps back again. “Give me your hands.”

It takes Flint a moment to fully comply, but then he’s putting his hands behind his back, his face now resting fully on Silver’s desk. He’s looking at Silver sideways, panting heavily, his face flushed and his eyes green and hazy.

Silver takes Flint’s hands and deliberately drags them onto his own ass, bringing them down hard on the bright red skin. Flint squeezes on instinct, making himself moan.

“You’re going to hold yourself open, Mr. Flint,” Silver says, getting to his knees as gracefully as he can. “I’ve decided instead of punishing you for that mouth, I should like to prove how fair and able I actually am.”

He gives himself a moment to enjoy the sight, Flint holding himself open wide, his inflamed skin looking pink and angry in the dancing light of the room. He looks just long enough for Flint to wonder, to shift his weight and raise his head and not loosen his grip on his ass as he says, “Captain?”

Then, Silver dives in. He licks a long stripe, from his balls, over his asshole, all the way to the top of his crack. He can feel the warmth emanating from Flint’s skin on his face, can feel it as he runs the tip of his tongue around Flint’s hole, tracing the puckered rim, kissing him open wetly and with vigor. He keeps at this for a little while, just like he did with the slaps, alternating at random between licking and sucking and fucking with his tongue. He mentally documents every type of sound Flint makes, how every change brings his uptight rigger closer to a shuddering edge.

“Oh  _fuck_ ,” Flint groans above him, pushing back into Silver’s face with abandon. “Fuck, Captain, please. Oh, please,  _Captain_!” He’s clutching at his sore cheeks, pulling at himself wider to help Silver get in closer, as Silver begins to suck on his hole. “Captain, please,  _fuck_ , I need –  _Fuck_   _me_ , Captain, fuck –”

But Silver is trying to instill a lesson here, that men should only go wagging their tongues where they’re wanted, which is exactly what he does, driving into Flint as deep as he can go in short, short bursts. He doesn’t have enough hands to keep Flint still under him and rub himself off, so he takes one hand off on of Flint’s thighs and pulls himself out, rubbing quick and rough like an afterthought. His sole focus is on keeping Flint bucking wildly under him, on keeping Flint’s mouth running.

“Fuck,  _fucking_ , shit,” Flint’s babbling, his hips thrusting against Silver’s face. But he doesn’t let go of himself or even waiver. His nails are digging into his skin, raising ten perfect welts across two perfect asscheeks. “You goddamn fucking –  _please_ ,  _Captain_!”

Silver takes his other hand off Flint’s leg and wraps it around Flint’s cock. He squeezes once, sucks hard on his stretched asshole, and Flint comes all over his desk. Silver can feel him clenching on his tongue as his body shudders with release, but it’s the final noise, the drawn out whimper pressed out between bitten lips, the unintelligible but unmistakable “ _Captain_ ” that wraps itself like another hand around Silver’s cock and brings him to his own climax, his moan lost deep inside Flint.

For a moment, all is still, before Silver pulls back and Flint collapses next to him on the floor, a short punched-out groan as he lands hard on his abused ass. Silver shifts awkwardly, getting his false leg stretched out under him. Flint’s half on top of him, breathing hard, looking at Silver with wide, wet eyes.

He reaches for Silver. “Let me –”

Silver, still panting with needed air,  pushes his hand away to tuck himself back in. “I’m fine.”

Flint pauses, and then rolls his eyes. “You know, a real Captain would have been able to  _wait_.”

Silver huffs. “It’s not my fault I couldn’t fully immerse myself in the character,” he says. “You wouldn’t let me wear your jacket.”

“You’re fucking lucky I let you get even  _this_  far,” Flint says, because he’s the perfect sort of jackass who doesn’t see any problem in calling another man  _lucky_  for getting to eat him out. Flint tucks a loose curl behind Silver’s ear. “What the fuck were you writing in my journal?”

“I wasn’t adding a new entry,” Silver assures him. He shifts again so Flint’s legs are over his and he can pull Flint into his lap, getting his sore ass off the unforgiving floor. He cups Flint to keep him steady, and also to hear that helpless moan right in his ears. “I was simply adding a few addendums to certain entries where I’ve been completely cut out. How dare you not make a record of last Wednesday evening, when I rode you for so hard and so long I blacked out afterwards? I would have thought the lack of consciousness would have warranted a footnote, at least.”

“That’s a  _nautical_  journal,” he says, touching Silver’s neck. He has an unmanageable problem where, given the slightest chance, he absolutely must play with Silver’s hair. He twists the ends around his fingers as he says, “That has no bearing on our navigations.”

“Wrong again, Captain.” Silver grabs Flint by the jaw and brings their faces together, kissing him once, soft and smooth, feeling dizzy with the way Flint responds to him always. “I always get you exactly where you need to go.”

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> originally posted [here](https://vowel-in-thug.tumblr.com/post/156906707361/you-look-like-a-monkey-whos-been-strategically)
> 
> prompt: Flint,Vane “You look like a monkey who’s been strategically shaved.”/ Silver, Jack ”I don’t want your pity, I want your absence.” and then i made it EXTRA gay and shippy

Jack spends about an hour looking for Anne, which really means he spends an hour looking for Max. He finally takes the hint after the fourth whore he speaks to gives him yet another blank stare and half a shrug. He’s choosing not to be offended, which he thinks is pretty magnanimous of him. But since he isn’t looking to fuck Anne but actually needs to  _speak_  to her, he heads back to Max’s office to wait.

And if he waits in Max’s ornate throne with his feet up on Max’s desk, he’s just making himself comfortable. It’s not like he knows how long they’ll be.

He’s at her door when he hears a thud on the other side. The office was the first place he looked and it had been empty, so if they’d doubled back to avoid him, he  _will_  be offended. They’re supposed to be beyond this sneaking around bullshit.

Except when he throws open the door, all he finds is an exhausted-looking, sickly John Silver, stretched out on Max’s settee. They stare at each other, both evidently too surprised to speak, before Jack steps all the way inside and closes the door. He takes in the man, the waxy pallor of his  skin, the metal pitcher of water spilling onto Max’s rug, and the knife gripped in Silver’s hand.

Jack gives the settee a wide berth and says, “Were you in here earlier?”

Silver tightens around the knife and doesn’t blink. “Maybe.” His voice sounds parched and painful.

Jack watches Silver out the corner of his eye as he approaches Max’s desk. Silver is attempting to sit up fully on the couch without letting go of his weapon or moving his leg too much. He knows what happened to Flint’s new Quartermaster, and figures as long as he doesn’t get within two feet of the man he’ll be safe from any wayward blades.

He sits down in Max’s chair and puts his feet up, because Jack Rackham is a man who follows through, regardless of any changes to his plan.

“Hope you don’t mind the company,” he says, shuffling his feet, smiling as he hears paper tear beneath his heels. “Just waiting for someone. Charles and your Captain have gone to the fort to look at the gold. I’m not sure why. Hard men, I suppose, get even harder in the presence of all that wealth.”

Silver is still staring at him, pointing the knife at him like it’s a gun. He looks like he hasn’t slept properly in weeks, and with a weapon in his hand he’s that faded, far-away kind of dangerous, like seeing a cannonball coming your way through a spyglass. You know it will cause some sort of carnage but, eventually. Jack isn’t entirely sure why the cannonfire is aimed at him though. As far as he’s aware, he’s never actually met John Silver.

“I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced,” says Jack. “I’m –”

“I know who you are,” Silver interrupts. “You used to be Vane’s Quartermaster.”

Jack knows what happened to Silver. He knows the culprit is dead, but if Silver harbors ill will towards Charles for it, as Flint’s new Quartermaster that could have disastrous effects on everyone’s precarious civility.

“Yes,” says Jack. “well, now I’m just Captain Rackham. Though, rest assured, I don’t possess any of the qualities of Charles’s  _last_  Quartermaster.”

Silver sneers, his teeth as white and sharp as fractured whale bones. “Pardon me if my rest doesn’t rely on your fucking personality.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Pardon  _me_  for trying to be a little empathetic to your current predicament.”

“I don’t want your pity.” Silver collapses back onto the armrest, though still gripping his knife. “I want your absence. Wait somewhere else.”

“No,” says Jack.

Silver sighs. “I know Max isn’t too pleased with having  _one_  pathetic bastard in her quarters alone, let alone  _two_  –”

“She can voice her displeasure and kick me out if and when she ever turns back up,” Jack says, crossing his ankles on the desk.

Silver rubs his forehead with the back of his hand, the one still holding the knife. Jack can’t help but wince every time the blade runs less than an inch from the man’s eye. This is the new voice of reason, to keep Captain Flint in check? Good Christ, the Caribbean will be burned to ashes by the end of the year.

He finally lowers his hand but says nothing, turning to look blearily out the window. The light is blinding against the cool shade of the office, too bright to make out any details. Outside is just a haze of some form and light, a vague impression of something other than where they are.

“Perhaps,” says Jack, still feeling magnanimous, and hating uncomfortable silences, “since my empathy is unwelcome, I could interest you in some advice.”

Silver turns away from where his mind wandered in the light and back to him, squinting at the change in brightness. “Advice?”

“Captains Flint and Vane are not as unalike as they both wish to be.” Jack takes his feet off the desk. “They aren’t easy men to live with, or easy men to guide. I’m assuming you know better than I what became of Flint’s former Quartermaster, Mr. Gates, who was, by comparison, a remarkably civil man who, I imagine, did not meet a civilized end. I’m also assuming you’d like to avoid such a fate yourself.”

Silver swallows, face tight with pain. His free hand drifts down to his leg, in a way Jack thinks he isn’t even aware of. “How did you do it?” Silver rasps. “How did you avoid it?”

Jack shrugs. “Many Quartermasters make the mistake of seeing your Captain as separate from the crew whose interests you represent,” he says. “Captains are of this opinion too. But at the end of the day, a Captain is a part of the crew. It’s integral to try and keep all interests aligned, lest the crew split completely. And I would highly recommend that you do not fall in love with your Captain.”

Silver blinks. A lot. He frowns, and opens his mouth to speak a few times, but nothing comes out. His grip even loosens on the knife a little. He finally says, halting, “Why would that even be a possibility?”

Jack stands. Over by the window is another pitcher of water, and he pours some into a mug. He approaches Silver calmly, not missing the way Silver shifts upwards, holding the knife out in front of him. But Jack just holds out the cup and waits for Silver to take it.

“You’ll either grow to love him implicitly,” Jack says when Silver finally reaches for the cup, “or hate him extensively. I don’t need to tell you which is easier to deal with. Of course, both emotions can be violent, and passionate, and consuming. But one can be controlled far easier than the other. If you come to hate Captain Flint, you can do your job effectively. You won’t make excuses for his mistakes, you’ll be able to see where he is blind, to doubt when he acts on faith alone. You can do what’s best for your men, which ultimately is your main concern. And you can hope to guide him towards beneficial goals, to his gain and everyone else’s. But if you love him, the only thing you can hope for at the end of every day is just to survive.”

Silver looks up at him, and Jack can see he is trembling slightly. He has yet to drink his water. Jack has always been good at reading people. It helped him survive childhood, it helped him cheat at every card game in his life, it helped him work with Charles Vane, who often gave orders only by the slightest facial tic. He can see, plain on Silver’s face, it isn’t the pain in his leg working to keep him awake at night.

“Did you – “ Silver starts. “I mean, you and V–” He doesn’t finish, and Jack isn’t about to answer a question that can’t be asked. He’s never voiced it before. The only one who would even ask it before now is Anne, and she’s never needed to. Anne sees every answer in him before he even knows the question.

Silver drinks his water. Jack sits back down at the desk, watching Silver stare down into his cup, thinking hard. Finally, Silver says, “I’ve always maintained that being liked is preferable to anything else a person could feel for you. Safer, easier to manage.”

Jack snorts. “If you say so.” Honestly, Jack spends most days in disbelief he’s gotten the people who do like him to stick around this long.

“So what happens,” says Silver, looking at him long, “if you get your Captain to love you back?”

Outside, some clouds must have shifted in front of the sun, for the light is no longer streaming through the window. The room is cast in momentary gray, and though the air is still thick with tropical heat, Jack feels an old forgotten coldness. Once as a boy, he’d fallen into a deep well out behind his house, and it had taken many hours before anyone realized he was missing and heard his cries for help. He doesn’t remember the fall, the experience hadn’t made him fear the dark or the water, but the chill of it, that seeped in through his bones, that he’d felt in every part of him, down to his fingernails, down to the tips of his hair – that’s what lingered in his dreams. That’s what he survived, and why he vows never to be cold again.

He shifts low in Max’s chair, feet back on the desk. “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he says, closing his eyes. It’s not an awkward silence if he’s asleep.

* * *

 

It really is a shameless amount of gold. It seems to be its own source of light, each piece shining off another, glinting in the shaded gloom of the fort dungeon.

The last time Vane was down here, he’d been looking at something equally bright and equally dangerous. But thinking of Eleanor is as useless to him as thinking about God or the moon – all things out of his reach and unchangeable, unaffected by whatever move he makes next.

But there’s little that takes his mind off Eleanor. The millions in gold stacked before him does come fucking close, though. He’s seen it before, of course, but each time seems unreal, intangible, like a daydream.

Behind him, he hears a quiet snort. “Never thought I’d see Charles Vane looking so stunned. You’re gaping like a dying fish.”

Vane turns to Flint. In the yellow reflection of the gold, he looks almost like his old self again, like when they’d fought at Eleanor’s. He’d been so filled with blood and righteousness then, and at the time Vane had hated every ounce of him. But then on the pulpit in Charles Town, he’d seemed so fucking bloodless to Vane, and in the days following it became clear it was all leaking out of Flint like a shelled hull, and what remains now is a ghost ship, ripped sails and smoking remains, emptied of all life, and packed with enough gunpowder to burn the world down.

Flint is dying, white-hot and fast, sure to burn out sooner than later. Vane learned in his youth to let his own rage simmer, let it be a constant rolling boil, lest it consume him, as he’d seen it consume men before. But Flint can pretend to be fine in front of Vane as much as he wants to. It’s not his fucking responsibility to cheer up James Flint.

“And you look like a fucking monkey who’s been strategically shaved,” Vane says, folding his arms to keep from touching his sword. Jack would be upset if they got blood on all the money. Not to mention their tentative, vital truce might be shifted somewhat by another unnecessary duel.

Flint blinks at him, fists clenching to stop himself from rubbing his newly bald head. “Witticisms are not exactly your area of expertise,” he says, scowling. “Who would have guessed one day you’d be acting as Jack Rackham’s mouthpiece for things he’s too chickenshit to say out loud?”

Vane opens his mouth to reply, something along the lines of  _fuck_   _you_ , but they’re interrupted.

“Gentlemen,” Max says, the same way one might say  _assholes_. “I thought we came down here to discuss the damages done to the fort from the last time you both behaved like squabbling little boys.”

She’s not looking at Vane when she speaks. Vane doesn’t blame her. He doesn’t particularly like looking at her either. Everything he hates about himself is in her eyes, bouncing back at him like gold off a single candle.

They make their way out of the dungeons, Max leading the way with a torch. Flint is silently brooding beside him.

“I heard you got yourself a new Quartermaster,” Vane says idly, thinking of the truce. “Mine haven’t voted yet.”

“See that they don’t pick a fucking lunatic this time,” Flint says through clenched teeth.

“Considering who they have to choose from, I don’t know if that’s an option,” Vane says. “For what it’s worth, though. I would have gutted Jenks myself had your men not done it first.”

“Because he mutinied against you,” counters Flint, his hands still curled into fists. “Not because he mutilated my man.”

Vane shrugs. “Even so.”

They continue up through the path, Max’s soft footsteps moving fast and swift, the paces between her and them growing longer with her clear desire to be away.

“Truth be told,” Vane says after a moment, “I nearly killed your man myself. Silver, is it? When he cut the fore-stay, that’s the kind of thing I kill people for.”

He can see Flint’s jaw clenching, but he doesn’t say anything.

“But then we found out at just the right moment you were about to be hanged for piracy,” Vane continues. “Seemed like no point in wasting another pirate, when the obvious was about to occur.”

He feels Flint look at him in surprise. He knew he was not expected to be pragmatic. People often assume Vane isn’t a smart man, just because he often thinks with his dick instead of his brain. But Vane knows – knows from Jack – that acting one way most of the time was the best way no one saw them coming when they finally came for you.

He’s exchanged few words with Flint’s new Quartermaster, once they got back to Nassau to discover their shores awash with Spanish gold. Silver never looked at Vane, the same way Max doesn’t look at Vane, but he also never looked at Flint much either, which is interesting. They all met to discuss their futures, and while everyone – even Vane – had been looking forward with some kind of optimism, excitement, and possibility, the Captain and the Quartermaster of the  _Walrus_  were together ill and silent, minds working alone at a past neither could ever undo.

“He reminds me of Jack,” Vane finds himself saying. “Mr. Silver. He can make himself fit in with your men, but it’s not really who he is. I’d watch out for him, it were me.”

Flint lets out a short, unkind laugh. “You have about as much experience with your crew turning against you as I do, Vane. But thanks for the warning.”

“That’s not the kind of watching I meant,” Vane says quietly. “They stand out. They get noticed. And I think you know how that can be a fucking problem.”

Once they’d blasted Charles Town to pieces and sailed away, both of them had stood in the Captain’s quarters of the warship, looking at Vane’s dead men on the floor, at the bloody table, at the bloody blunt end of an axe. Flint had spared Vane’s life on the deck not even an hour before, but he thought Flint might have killed him then and there. Vane knew Flint had lost his woman at Charles Town, had seen her body propped up against the stone himself, and he’d seen Flint’s fury laying waste to the people responsible. He isn’t afraid of Captain Flint and he never will be, but he knows if the day comes when that fury points itself at him in full-force, it’s going to be a very difficult fucking day for Vane.

Now, Flint rubs the back of his head. The hallway is getting lighter as they get closer above ground. “I don’t trust him,” Flint admits. “I can’t.”

“You don’t trust me,” Vane points out. “And yet when we worked together, we pulled off a miraculous escape and the ultimate destruction of a leading force for civilization in these waters.”

“What’s your point?” Flint asks, and now he’s looking at Vane. He looks pained but not angry, which is something of a success for Vane. The first sunbeam hits the shine of Max’s hair up ahead, and now the light is pale and cold, despite the midmorning heat.

Vane thinks about every time he’s been up against Jack, every time they both fucked things up for each other. Every time he hated the sight of Jack’s face and every time he didn’t feel at ease after a raid until he saw Jack standing upright. Jack is his enemy and his friend simultaneously. He’s his Quartermaster, regardless of whatever titles he had now.

“It means the only men who stay one thing are dead men,” Vane says, stepping out into the courtyard, brighter than it should have been due to the crumbling walls of the fort. “Until then, we’re always changing from one fucking thing to another.”

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> originally posted [here](https://vowel-in-thug.tumblr.com/post/159928025846/so-corsaircourser-whose-username-i-cant-tag)
> 
> prompt: “It’s not heavy. I’m stronger than I look.”

Flint stands, watching Billy by the treeline. Watching the strange men behind him file out ahead, training their guns on Flint’s crew, who are still too weak and starved to do anything but blink and curse. Billy looks grim, more so than usual, with a gun pointed at his head.

Flint stands, and then, slowly, moves to stand in front of Silver.

Silver, who is still on the ground, and letting out quiet exclamations as a man with a gun approaches them. Two more men with weapons are quick to follow. Flint can’t see what Silver is doing, but he can feel him shift at his feet. He is still on the ground when the men approach.

The man in front of Flint looks at him like he’s fishing. Like Flint is just another fish caught in a net. There’s no anger, no passion, no sympathy. No wariness about what Flint or his men might do. It’s just another task –  to catch him, to kill him, like all the other fish before and all the ones after. Flink thinks this man could cut off his head and then never think of him again.

The man says something, which Flint doesn’t understand. But Flint understands the barrel of his gun. Slowly, so slowly, he lifts his hands and removes his own weapons. He tosses his pistol, his sword, and his knives into the sand. The other men scoop them up, while the man in front of Flint doesn’t even glance at them.

Flint sees out the corner of his eye Silver following suit, his own pistol striking the sand, and then the man in front of Flint glances at  _him_.

And suddenly, the man in front of Flint becomes the man in front of Silver. He points his gun at him and says something sharply, but the way he gestures with his pistol suggests only one sentiment: get up.

Flint finally looks down. Silver’s hands are shaking, in part due to the imminent threat, but also because they’ve been  _starving_ , and sick, and when you can’t eat, you can’t sleep either. He has the iron leg on but it’s not straight, and he’s fumbling with the buckles to try and adjust it, but the faster he moves, the more his hands shake.

The man in front of Silver repeats what he said before, only louder, and gestures harder with his gun.

“Wait!” Flint steps in front of it, hands still raised. “Just wait. He just needs another moment.”

The man says something again, his face as passive as before, but the other two men approach Flint, and the man in front of Silver pulls back the hammer of his gun.

“ _Wait_ ,” Flint says again, “he just needs a  _moment_ ,  _please_.”

There’s a hand around his arm and he’s never felt so frail in his whole fucking life. The hand wraps itself almost all the way around his forearm and begins to tug. Normally, Flint wouldn’t have been moved an inch, and he tries to stay still, but he is also shaking, and with one more tug the only thing that will be standing in between Silver and a gun is air, but  if he struggles they’ll both be gutted like fish either way.

“Just  _wait_ ,  _please_  – “ and the man in front of Silver steps forward.

“It’s on,” Silver says breathlessly. “It’s on. Captain, help me up,  _quickly_.” He extends his hand to Flint and it’s still shaking. Flint doesn’t need to be asked twice.

He hauls Silver up and Silver stumbles, sinking into the sand. Flint’s hand comes up on his chest to steady him, and he feels sick at the bones he can feel through his shirt. Silver grimaces in pain but says nothing.

The man in front of them says something else, a single word, and gestures again with his gun. He leads them towards where the rest of Flint’s crew are waiting by the trees, waiting for them to head into the forest.

* * *

One of his men has run away, and Flint doesn’t even entertain the notion that he might see that fellow again. None of their captors seem all that bothered by it, though, which at least means they don’t plan to take the escape attempt out on the rest of them.

Or that whatever fate awaits them is so bad that any further punishment seems pretty irrelevant.

Silver is cursing beside him as he stumbles along. Flint is terrified what might happen if he falls again, afraid of any sort of additional attention on him and his missing limb.

Silver bumps into him, not very hard at all, but Flint sees the opening and takes it. He grabs Silver’s arm roughly and throws it over his shoulders before Silver can even get his mouth open.

“Enough of this,” Flint mutters, looking straight ahead. “The time for pride would have been  _before_ we almost starved to death.”

“It’s not –” Silver sighs quietly. “You need to save up your strength for what’s to come. You don’t need the extra weight.”

Flint feels his whole body trembling under Silver already. The muscles in his neck ache sharply, like he’s being drawn and quartered. His side feels stitched at the awkward angle of his body. Silver jerks when he walks, and it pulls and presses at every healing bruise and cut on him.

“You aren’t that heavy,” Flint says. “I’m stronger than I look.”

Silver doesn’t say anything, and then he snorts softly. “You must have the strength of Goliath, then, Captain.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’ve yet to see you look anything other than strong.”

It’s a lie, even if Silver doesn’t realize it’s a lie. Silver has seen him weeping on the floor with Gates in his arms. He has dragged Flint’s unconscious body from the depths of the sea. He has looked right into the heart of Flint and effortlessly seen how awful it is to be him. He has listened to Flint beg, in so many words, for Silver not to leave his side. They shared a cabin recently, in the days following Miranda’s death. Their entire relationship has been nothing but Flint being weak and Silver refusing to notice.

They come to a clearing of wood, and the ground drops below them. Silver steps away from Flint as they gaze out onto the expanse of the Maroon camp. It’s large and bustling and sophisticated. Flint had known they were fucked before, but now he understands just how much.

Their captors lead them down the embankment, which is rocky and steep. Flint walks in front by design, so when Silver finally trips (almost immediately), he lands right into Flint’s back. And then it’s easy to hook his arm around Silver’s tiny waist. Silver has no choice but to loop his arm back around Flint’s neck.

He’s flushed, like he might be embarrassed, and his features are twisted into a snarl.

He feels stupid to say it, but Flint asks again, “ _Are_  you alright?”

This time, Silver nods, teeth clenched, before finally spitting out, “Sand.”

“What?”

“There’s – sand. In the boot.” Silver bits on the bottom of his lip hard enough to turn pink white. “It’s like grinding down right on the bone with each step.”

His fingernails dig sharply into Flint’s neck, in and out, like an agitated cat extending its claws. Flint doesn’t think Silver even knows he’s doing it. It’s the familiar twitch of a person in agonizing pain, unable to stop it and trying desperately to find something else to focus on, even if it’s another pain.

“It’ll be a small comfort, I suppose,” Flint says softly, turning his face so it goes right into Silver’s ear. Silver’s nails dig in again.

“What is?”

“When they decide to finally eat us,” Flint says, “there’ll be less of you to go around.”

Silver lets out a choked laugh, turning to Flint in surprise. Their faces are suddenly so very close.

“I must be honest,” Silver breaths, not looking away. “The thought had crossed my mind back on the ship. That we might have to resort to such measures. And you’re right.”

“I am?”

“It  _was_  a comfort.” Silver, of all things, smiles.

Flint looks away, even though he’d started the joke. The harsh terrain is ending soon. He can already see the edge of the river through the trees. He feels Silver panting on his cheek, as heavy as his whole weight on Flint’s frame.

Without thinking, Flint says, “No one would have eaten you on that ship.”

Silver huffs. It hits Flint’s eyelashes. “I don’t think the men like me that much to spare me if that’s the path we had found ourselves on.”

Flint doesn’t know why they’re talking about this. Maybe because they have, in some fashion, found themselves on a similar path, towards a gruesome end, and there’s nothing they can do about it now. Maybe because Silver has stopped twitching and instead is just pressing his fingertips lightly on the nape of his neck. Whatever the reason, Flint says, “I wouldn’t have let them.”

He doesn’t know why he says it, only that now, in this moment, with Silver holding Flint up as much as he’s holding Silver up – now, he believes it. He’s not sure where the impulse comes from, but it’s there all the same. It’s the same kind of impulse that had struck him in the past, when that other sailor had insulted Miranda in that tavern, or when he’d asked Thomas’s father to leave the dinner table. He hadn’t known where or why those impulses had overcome him, then, either.

As if reading his mind, Silver says wryly, but no less quietly, “I wonder if you would have spared me  _before_ , when you were still in the dark about my role in the Urca gold.”

Flint doesn’t answer, because he also doesn’t know that either. And really, it makes no difference. He does know, however, that the only thing he’d felt upon hearing Silver’s confession was pure, unimaginable relief.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Silver whispers. “If you had tried to spare me – either we would have both been the first to be eaten, or the last two left remaining. The two of us, gorged on the blood and fat of our brothers. And then, what do you think would have happened?”

They arrive at the river. There aren’t nearly enough boats for everyone, but their captors are efficient in dividing everyone up, so that their guards are never outnumbered by their prisoners. Flint is put in a boat alone with Silver, possibly because they are still supporting each other.

Silver doesn’t seem to be waiting for an answer, and in fact seems to have forgotten the whole conversation, staring out at the camp in trepidation. Even so, Flint doesn’t think Silver would like his answer, that, in that scenario on the ship, Flint would never have eaten a single man. He would have given all the meat to Silver, to keep him strong, and alive, and when there was no one left but him, he’d offer himself up for a final meal. He’d only ask that Silver start with his heart.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> originally posted [here](https://vowel-in-thug.tumblr.com/post/156017712561/silverflinty-49-it-sounds-like-youre-trying-to)
> 
> prompt: “It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in retrospect, this one might also be rated E

Silver realizes he’s in love with Flint while he’s sucking Flint’s cock down to the root.

He pulls off suddenly with a wet, obscene pop. He glares at Flint’s cock, since it is, in part, responsible. “This isn’t happening,” he tells it.

Flint sighs above him. “Well,  _now_  it isn’t,” he says, annoyed, thrusting his hips up slightly.

Silver looks up at him. As always, whenever they fuck, Flint is completely naked, his whole body shiny with sweat, flushed and achingly, all-over hard. Most men fucked furtively, clothes pushed aside in an effort to be fast and hidden. It surprises Silver, that first time, watching Flint strip slowly, purposefully, his eyes hot and mad on Silver, but in retrospect it’s the least surprising thing about this. Flint never half-asses anything.

Other men look vulnerable, so fully naked like this. On Flint, all you can see is his strength.

“This isn’t happening,” Silver says again, this time to Flint’s face, to the damp hair curling behind his ears, to the pink skin resting beneath his many cuts and bruises, to the swollen lips outlined in red from beard burn and Silver’s thirst.

Silver started fucking Flint to keep himself close. Not just to maintain his relationship to the gold, but also to maintain a likely survival on this crew. And also, because Flint seems like… a good man to know. Someone to… be near. A reliable person, surely, to have in your corner, if you can get close enough.

This is too close. He doesn’t do – whatever this is.

Flint stares down at him, face dark and difficult to read in the low light of the cabin. His hand tangles lightly through Silver’s hair. “It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself of something,” he says, tugging Silver closer to his cock. “And I’m fairly certain that’s something you can achieve silently, in your head.”

And Silver thinks, swallowing down that gloriously thick cock again, perhaps he has a point.

 _This isn’t happening_ , Silver thinks, climbing astride Flint’s lap, hands tight on his ass, helping gently open himself up and ease his way down.

 _This isn’t happening_ , he thinks, as Flint runs a hand softly down Silver’s neck, his short, punched-out moans falling from his lips and onto Silver’s, they are pressed so close.

 _This isn’t happening_ , as Flint rubs his thumb wetly over the head of Silver’s cock, then using the pre-cum to wet one of Silver’s nipples, his eyes playful as he leans down to take it into his mouth and clean it off. As he laughs lowly, privately, at the way Silver keens into it.

 _This isn’t happening_ , as Silver is collapsed on Flint’s chest afterwards, and has been for some time, but Flint doesn’t move him. He’s content with the weight, his hands idly twisting Silver’s curls into braids and then untangling them again.  _This isn’t happening_ , as Flint pushes him up slightly so he can kiss him again, starting behind Silver’s ear and then trailing upward over his stubbled jaw, brow furrowing as he presses hard and open into Silver’s mouth.  _This isn’t happening,_  as Flint threads his fingers through Silver’s, as he murmurs against his forehead about tomorrow’s endeavors, and yesterday’s successes, and last week’s disappointments, and next week’s triumphs, and Silver thinks but cannot say,  _I saw, I was there, I’ll see, I’ll be there, I’ll be there._


End file.
